


and safe for aye, may my darling be

by Gayforgoodomens, NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Celt! Crowley, Expect a lot of thirst, Language Barrier, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Roman! Aziraphale, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), artist and writer are just very horny tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29982516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gayforgoodomens/pseuds/Gayforgoodomens, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: Crowley takes a step back, searching for a way to get down without breaking his neck, when he sees a legionnaire coming in his direction. His heart beats in his mouth, his nerves going haywire, and he almost collapses to his feet. It's impossible to escape. The only way to get out is to descend the wall, but that would leave his back exposed. An idiotic move, with an enemy approaching.He can feel his pulse in his temples, the heavy, acidic taste of fear pushing up his throat, making his skin ring and tense tight, the red-fever terror of being caught loud in his blood. He isn't ready to die, to be shackled and tossed to the ground with a heel on his neck just short of snapping his bones like twigs.They could do so much worse. He has heard the tales.Crowley is a Brigante during the first Roman invasion of Britain, trapped in turbulent times for his people and their land. Aziraphale, a centurion newly-assigned to the region, is tired of all the fighting. When they meet, things will start changing for them.A Celt/Roman AU
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 210
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Top Aziraphale Recs





	and safe for aye, may my darling be

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> This all started when the amazingly talented gayforgoodomens shared the idea of an AU where Crowley was a Celt and Aziraphale was a roman. I went absolutely feral for it after seeing some sketches and in this way a collaboration was born that I hope brings all of you the joy is bringing us, the historical nerds. 
> 
> Even though we've tried to mantain some level of historical accuracy, for fic purposes some changes have been made in order to fulfill a narrative. We have to give our entire souls in this regard to the absolutely brilliant [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95) who beta'd this fic since the beginning, provided lots of resources, time and encouragement while we were developing this and continues to do so. Without her knowledge as an archaeologist (who even worked in the area!!!), and Good Omens fan and ficwriter, this wouldn't have been possible. Tawny, we owe you everything. 
> 
> Also a big thank you to my forever beta [Hatknitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatKnitter) who keeps me in line wordwise.

_Where I go, will you still follow?_

_Will you leave your shaded hollow?_

_Will you greet the daylight looming,_

_Learn to love without consuming?_

"Thus always to tyrants" by The Oh Hellos

* * *

Crowley can say he bloody well hates this. 

_"Go up there and find out what they're up to."_

As if it weren't almost fucking suicidal. If he gets caught, he could be killed, flayed for sport. The Romans are all barbarians. Or perhaps he could be trapped as a beast and sold as cattle to be shipped elsewhere, stripped from his clan. 

In the best case scenario. 

The worst… better not to think about it. 

But it's an order.

Easy for Béaz to say it. The Chieftain didn't care how things got done as long as they did. And that's how Crowley found himself slinking along the shadows with the words still ringing in his ears.

He travels over the wild terrain that he knows by heart. Skill of a mountain farer used to the Cumbrian slopes, he moves silently. Every bush, every treetop, every blade of grass stirred by the wind, barely hidden by the dusk, seems to sigh its greetings as Crowley moves forward. It isn't long before he spots the craggy lines of the fort. 

Romans are practically everywhere these days, the bastards. It seems to be the way they live, the way they rummage through the lands, taking what they want, and thinking themselves conquerors of wherever they set foot. Not knowing that the very Earth could swallow them if she so pleased. 

As naïve as bairns, the lot of them. 

He wants to think the Brigantes know better. 

The leather of his shoes catches on the sharp edge of a rock, slightly, before he steps onto the grass and keeps moving. 

Clouds swollen with rain roll above, where the sky is already bleeding purple, threatening the darkness. Far away up in the mountains, a thunderclap. At least he still has Taranis's blessing today. 

Crowley steps closer to the fort, measuring and pondering the best way to slither in without risking his neck. 

The fort is a gruesome thing, big and rough-made of stone, breaking the peaceful line of the moors. The camp is inside, hedged by a hulking, thick wall that, luckily for Crowley, hasn't been repaired thoroughly since the last skirmishes, the rock chipped and shattered in places. It's imposing because these invaders really don't have another choice; a den, almost, for them to hide in, unable to bask in the landscape, afraid of what lurks beyond the shade of the trees.

Afraid of them. 

Crowley watches from behind a bush. There's a small ledge, a broken piece of masonry probably never fixed, just at the right height to sneak in and climb. 

Perfect. There's no one near. 

Soon, he's pushing himself up the craggy surface with all the artful mastery of limbs trained for this task, reaching the boardwalk, looking over his shoulder trying to spot any soldiers. Crowley crouches, sinks to his knees behind a crate, and cranes his neck to look inside. His pulse is a wild thing, beating in his chest, chasing away the cold that bites at his arms, at the expanse of his back. 

The high, heavy noises of clinking metal, muffled grunts, and barks of laughter mingle with the scent of cedar in the air that swirls and licks his skin. Wisps of smoke rise from the buildings, rolling away and mixing with the moaning wind across the moors. Idiots. He can hear the wolves howling nearby, attracted by the thick, heavy tang of the grease they're burning carelessly.

He adjusts his braies, relishing the last slivers of warmth now broken by the proximity of the Harvest Moon, but still lingering in the breath of air to allow him to move without his heavy, woven-wool cloak.

Crowley watches the men tread from one spot to another. They make so much noise, he doesn't understand how they can hear each other talk over the clattering of their armour, rattling like pebbles on a river every time they move as much as a leg. Loud. 

Proud in their might. 

Foolish. 

Anyone could crack their defenses just like he's doing. 

Then his wandering gaze stops.

There's a line of tribesmen trapped between wooden bars. He recognizes some. Scouts from his tribe, given up for dead when they didn't return. Three, that he can spot. 

They're bruised, blood and grime sticking to them in places. Battered, broken, skin mottled purple and green, the evidence of days of punishment in the disjointed way they hold themselves upright. Crowley can see three Roman legionnaires standing nearby, jeering at the way one of the men in the cage is bent in pain. 

The invasion is coming on strong this time. These beasts have no mercy, fear nothing. The people, Crowley's people, might well kiss their freedom goodbye, perhaps to be sold as slaves to lands they haven't even heard of. If the Romans could do that to Lorcan, their former Chieftain, these scouts have no hope. 

The tribe needs to get them out. 

Crowley scrambles to his feet, hearing another loud boom of thunder that deafens him to the mishmash of noises. A blessing to wash away the screams. 

He takes a step back, searching for a way to get down without breaking his neck, when he sees a legionnaire coming in his direction. Crowley's heart beats in his mouth, his nerves going haywire, and he almost collapses to his feet. It's impossible to escape. The only way to get out is to descend the wall, but that would leave his back exposed. An idiotic move, with an enemy approaching. 

He can feel his pulse in his temples, the heavy, acidic taste of fear pushing up his throat, making his skin ring and tense tight, the red-fever terror of being caught loud in his blood. He isn't ready to die, to be shackled and tossed to the ground with a heel on his neck just short of snapping his bones like twigs. 

They could do so much worse. He has heard the tales.

The sky rumbles and a downpour is unleashed, beating against the land in a rhythm that doesn't quite manage to muffle the rush of blood in Crowley's ears. He's getting soaked, his long, plaited hair now heavy and wet, carrying a stream along the crease of his spine, drenching his braies completely. 

The soldier is already close enough for Crowley to see the dark wisps of his hair, the vicious smile on his face as he watches the same decadent, brutal show the Romans are making of their captives. 

The wind swooshes with hints of smoke, splattering rain on Crowley's face. His breath is sharp, heavy, rattling his throat. He won't escape from this. 

Someone shouts behind him, a noise underpinned by the pelting of the rain, a command Crowley doesn't, can't, understand, in the language of these beasts. That atrocious lilt that in no way resembles his own language. 

No. This one is plain. A droning of words, all running together, that drags and drags through the thick air.

Quick. Harsh. 

The voice that speaks is unrelenting, crisp and clear. Crowley can't see who it belongs to, crouched as he is behind the crate. But the legionnaire stops in his tracks, salutes, turns, and walks away. 

The air that shoves out of Crowley is a cracked burst, a breathy sort of huff that makes his nose sting. He falls on his arse, swallowing sour, scalding gulps, and closes his eyes until his pulse evens out, the frantic energy streaming out of him. 

He feels the shift on his face, first. 

He isn't getting wet anymore, though the sound of the rain continues. 

But there's a pressure, a sharp coldness, against the pulse spot on the side of his neck. 

Crowley’s eyes fly open, looking heavenwards. His gaze is unfocused and, for a strange, brief moment, he can't quite place what he's looking at, because all he sees is a shadow looming over him. He’s sharply aware of its edges, of the gleaming metal flashes of a helmet, of a face that isn't clear because the light beats against it. Crowley feels as if he’s been gazing up at it for hours, almost lost in the inexorable march of time, not really here, not on a wall but somewhere else. Until he blinks, pushing the haze away, and a scream curdles in his throat when he realizes it's a _fucking Roman_ , his sword making a statement against Crowley's neck. Crowley tenses, quicksilver understanding falling on him while he tries to put as much distance as he can between them, even though he knows it’s fruitless. The shift makes the soldier's face visible, and Crowley's eyes finally climb up the leather armour, up to where a pair of blue eyes are staring at him intently, lingering and gentle.

The sword pulls away and falls to the soldier's side. 

Crowley stops. Pauses. His heart pounding, his gut fluttering, clenching in a confused sort of knot over the rhythmic pounding of the rain, over the cloudburst that doesn't cease. 

Because the man is _beautiful_. 

There’s still a wisp of apprehension in the lines of that face, sitting at the edge of that mouth. Crowley can’t look away, not really, from the golden hair that peeks from under the helmet, from the generous lips that are slightly parted in a soft breath. He feels his own mouth has fallen slack, his eyes wide, looking at the blazing vision he knows can’t be other than Belenus. Sun-golden and regal. 

But then the man clears his throat, asks him something in that barked language of his, and the spell breaks. Crowley knows he’s _fucked_. The man is a Roman, and he shouldn't forget it. A soldier, an enemy. And his hand is still curled, albeit loosely, around the hilt of his sword.

"Oh, fuck, don't!" Crowley's yelp is nearly swallowed by the clamor of the sky, but the Roman hears him. And Crowley knows, by the way he's frowning, that he doesn't understand a word he's hearing.

Crowley's joints, his muscles, scream when he bolts upright, pulling away, his back hitting blindly against the wall, because he doesn't want to die at the feet of a man that doesn't even know he's begging. He’s still trapped, _fuck, he’s still trapped_. His shoulders shaking, his nails scraping the unyielding stone behind him as if he could scratch his way free. But the Roman sheaths his sword with some sense of finality, and offers him his hand. A big, broad palm, with fingers outstretched, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. Just a smidge.

Crowley can’t trust him. Shouldn’t trust him. He knows it is a reckless, foolish thing. 

He takes the hand, nonetheless. 

Crowley doesn’t know exactly what he’s expecting. A pull, perhaps. A violent tug and a push down the path, to join the rest of his tribe. But he is not, absolutely not, expecting to be met with a soft sort of understanding, with a delight that now etches sure on the whisper-thin lines between those brows, on those cheeks, a gentle squeeze of warm skin before the soldier lifts the cape from his shoulders and extends it over Crowley like a wing, shielding him from the rain.

Something curls, stirs bright-edged behind Crowley’s ribs, something that drifts up almost close enough to the surface for Crowley to name it. It’s an odd, unfamiliar thing. 

The man says something. His words are low, but urgent, his hands flexed as if trying to touch Crowley but not daring entirely. Caught in the mid-reach. It reminds him of the many times he's approached a wild hare, movements controlled, trying not to scare it. 

Crowley isn't sure what's happening. The only thing clear is that he needs to leave and climb down the wall. Fast. He tries to pull away, but the blonde soldier takes a step forward and raises a hand.

Crowley can feel the warmth pushing into his body when the soldier presses closer, the broad shape of him comforting under the rain. The man looks at him for a long moment, gaze wandering over his face, swiveling down to his lips before snapping back to his eyes. There's a gleam in those blue eyes, and Crowley's stomach twists when the soldier flicks the tip of a tongue over the seam of his mouth. Crowley watches him take a stuttered sort of inhale, almost cracked, just short of a sigh, and Crowley's knees seem to roll under him.

This is absolutely bizarre. He should be frightened, fighting to get away, because he's seen the brutal bliss with which these Romans mangle, shred, and tear apart flesh, stone, land. Making his people regret they have bodies to maim and conquer. And Crowley doesn't have a death wish. But his feet aren't moving, his throat is not working, and he feels his own cheeks heat when the Roman sets his teeth on his lip as if considering.

Crowley's skin crackles, and he can smell the smoke, the soldier's sweat encroaching the air around him, making him feel lightheaded. 

The man smiles then, a small, tentative thing, and his palm hovers over the curve of Crowley's bare shoulder, for a breath. 

_'May I?,_ ' he seems to say. 

Crowley nods and soon the soldier unfastens the cape from his shoulders and places it over Crowley's, pulls it up like a cloak. 

Crowley shudders, a roll of warmth, because the cape is so thick it hasn't gotten wet entirely. His muscles quiver in a whole-body shudder. 

The soldier takes a step back and beckons Crowley to follow him. He signals the massive main door, and Crowley understands he intends to get him out that way. 

Crowley questions the reasons, of course he does. Why is a Roman helping him? Is this some kind of trap?

But then the man laces an arm around Crowley's waist, strong and decisive, the other hand curled around his shoulder, and Crowley isn't sure his legs remember how to move. They're pressed together, angles and curves, and the stark presence of the leather armor is there even through the layers. 

Crowley lets himself be herded down the stairs, pushed past some other soldiers who don't pay attention to them, entranced as they are in the spectacle at the center of the camp. And even in this moment, with his heart boring a hole in his chest, Crowley can register the way the soldier's handspan is almost enough to cover the entire side of his waist, the fingers warm and rough-calloused against his skin. He isn't sure, can't be sure with how brisk their steps are, but it almost feels as if those fingers are pressing gently against the soft give of the muscle with something akin to protectiveness.

Which is stupid. 

They reach the gates quickly and the soldier shouts some orders, which makes Crowley finally understand he isn't just a footman. He's a… _a Centurion, probably_. That's a word he remembers. 

It doesn't make any fucking sense. 

They cross the threshold in silence and, when they're outside, the soldier dithers for a bit, just a short second of pressed bodies before he lets Crowley go. Just like that. 

The wind bites at him, at the flank now exposed, and it's absurd but Crowley instantly regrets the loss. 

He watches the way the Roman closes and opens his mouth, the light swoosh of a word Crowley doesn't understand. He stands there, blue eyes widening as he takes Crowley in, and it's infuriating. 

Because he doesn't know what to expect. Why? Why go through all this ordeal to help him? There doesn't seem to be a reason. 

Crowley wants to say something, blurt out a question, but it's pointless. He moves as if to slough off the cloak from his shoulders but the man shakes his head, raises his hand as if encouraging him to keep it. 

Well, then. 

It's cold, after all, and Crowley isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He pushes away the fact that there are still traces of the soldier's scent in it, an edge of sweat, musk, and sage. 

Something Crowley decides not to _think_ about, how it makes his stomach twist hotly. 

He can't drag his eyes away from that face, much as he knows it's time to go. So he watches the man entirely, throws a cautious glance at his hands, the hands that had held a sword to Crowley's neck, that had been pressed gently to his skin. 

Behind him, the trees are waiting, the storm unfolding over their heads. 

"Thank you," he whispers. Pointless. 

Crowley gives the soldier his first, genuine smile - a bit stilted, still, a bit shy - and turns as if to leave. 

He feels those square, calloused fingers closing around his wrist, but not unkindly. Crowley swirls around, sees the man signal with a flick of movements. Himself, Crowley, the forest. He says something, but it's still as incomprehensible as it's been. But with his eyes trained on Crowley's face, it isn't difficult to understand. 

_'Can I come with you?'_

"What for? Why did you save me?" Crowley asks. On instinct, even if he knows there's no way for the man to pick up on his meaning.

There's no reason for the soldier to follow him. Or perhaps he wants Crowley to show him the path he used to get here, in hopes it's an unknown route the legions can block later. Perhaps he intends to harm Crowley in the forest. Away from everyone. Where his screams won't be heard and would melt into the night. 

But that doesn't make any sense. 

Not with the way the man's eyes are shining, bright and earnest. Kind above all. 

Hopeful.

Crowley feels his mouth run bone-dry, feels the soft fur of the cape tickling against his jaw. 

The forest breathes at his back, calling him home, and Crowley's gaze falls on the soaked, blond curls beneath that helmet. The bright sheen of water over that armour. 

Crowley nods. 

Deep down, he knows the answer was always bound to be yes.

* * *

  
  


Aziraphale isn't entirely sure he isn't entering a world of dreams. 

The forest is dark, and seems to have a thousand eyes. It whispers, half-drowsy, in each wisp of wind swirling around the leaves. It's an old forest, and the roots run deep. 

He watches the savage man walk in front of him, some sort of liquid grace in each step, even covered in his cape as he is. 

Aziraphale doesn't know why things have taken the path they have. But the moment he'd seen the Celt, with hair like fire, scared like a prey animal longing to get free, he'd known his gladius wasn't going to find a target in him. 

Just one look, an inadvertent flick of eyes, and his will had settled.

Perhaps he's tired. Of the butchery, of the incessant carnage he's seen during his long years of service. The battlefield is everywhere, and the blood follows him. Mingling, mixing with every part of memory he holds dear.

One year is already too long to be away. It's long enough to have seen too much. He's longing to be back in Rome instead of stranded in alien lands, punished for not fulfilling his duty as truthfully as he should have. 

To live outside the borders of the Empire is to dedicate his life to laying waste whatever village he sets foot in.

And he's tired. Sick of it.

He pushes down the sliver of a thought that reminds him of that rolling squirm in his stomach, of the jolt across his spine when his eyes had landed on the Celt's face. 

Hazel eyes, flecked golden, wide and scared, gazing back at him. Soft-looking lips bitten red in anguish. 

The man had mumbled, almost shouted something in that barked language of his, with such despair that Aziraphale's arm had fallen unwillingly to his side, his gladius forgotten. 

It's impossible to deny how beautiful the man is. A face so fair it makes Aziraphale think of chiseled marble in a temple. Lean and slender, so perfectly small in his hands – how could he not notice it – when he'd ushered him to safety. 

Aziraphale hurries his step among the shadows, fearing that, after all, the mirage will vanish, that the Celt will leave him behind to be chewed by the bark of the trees, spit it out by the earth. 

How can Aziraphale trust he will not? 

He loses his footing on a root. What is he doing? Why is he following this stranger?

The answer is swift, disciplined, and arrives in formation. Aziraphale needs to make sure the enemy is as far away from the camp as possible. No longer a threat and all that. 

With Gabriel, the Imperial Legate, close to arriving, it's better to make sure the enemy doesn't have any tricks up their sleeves. 

Yes. 

Several feet ahead, the man is still walking slowly, as if giving Aziraphale time to catch up to him. 

He isn't abandoning him, he isn't leaving. 

Aziraphale's still getting soaked, droplets filtering through the canopy of the forest's roof, and he knows the walk back to the fort will be an ordeal. 

But he persists. 

Soon, they arrive at the soft side of a hill, half obscured with oaks, just outside the outskirts of where the maps place Isurium. 

Aziraphale knows he's risking a lot. This is where the path ends for him. 

But the man skirts around some bushes that conceal a small door. A house built outside the limits of the town. 

There's a horse tied at one side that looks at Aziraphale with some sort of vague apprehension, its large eyes almost reproachful, until it turns to the man and makes what sounds similarly close to a greeting. 

The man pats its side, lets the horse nose his neck, before he turns around to face Aziraphale. 

_'Now what?_ ' He seems to ask with the way his brows pinch together. He moves forward, closer, and for a second Aziraphale is afraid he's concealing a weapon that will end up lodged in his flesh. 

But the man just stays there, eyes piercing him.

The storm has stopped, and the land just breathes, gleams verdant, and time seems to trundle around them in each stirred leaf. 

It's so quiet. 

So different from the places he's seen, from the lands he's already razed, from the tumult of the camp with its screams and hammering and shouting and yelling. Noises to fill the spaces when the pain and the doubts creep in. To be a soldier is to be hard of hearing, the clamor of a thousand voices, crushed under his _caligae,_ always there. 

It's as if, in every battle, Jupiter screamed, and in each crash of blades, in each gurgle of blood, the Tartarus called back. 

But not here, not now. 

Aziraphale blinks, and the man steps closer. 

Aziraphale watches the way he clutches the cape, _his cape_ , around his shoulders, how he tries to give it back to him again. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. Raises a hand. 

_Keep it._

He's tired of fighting. Of treading through life killing people who don't even have a chance to say their goodbyes. Aziraphale wouldn't even understand them if they did. 

The Celt swallows, a luxurious roll of that smooth, slender neck, and smiles again. He sinks a canine into his bottom lip, tilts his head to the side, the river of fire of his hair spilling over the fur of the cape, and seems to consider Aziraphale. 

_'Beautiful_ ,' Aziraphale thinks, his blood buzzing, _'you're so beautiful. How could I have killed you? I'd never hurt you,'_ and he wonders where this conviction is coming from. 

The man moves one of his fine-bone hands to his chest, presses, thumps there and speaks.

It's a gurgle of consonants, jumbled together. Short, sharp. 

"Your name?" Aziraphale asks, hoping the upward lilt would convey the question, and something brews in his stomach, sparks along his limbs. 

The man huffs, thumps again on his breastbone and tries one more time. 

This time, Aziraphale hears him, watches the way his lips curl, the way his throat squeezes out the sounds. 

"Crowley," the man says. 

"C-Crowley?" Aziraphale repeats. It's a poor attempt that shreds the word through a throat not made for the roll of consonants. 

But the m-, _Crowley’s_ , smile is so startlingly wide, Aziraphale can see the white of his teeth peeking through. His nose wrinkling with the dusted freckles along its bridge. 

It's enough to wrench a smile out of him, to push him to struggle to do the same.

He squares up his shoulders, places his palm over his chest. 

"Aziraphale," he says. Slowly. 

Crowley's eyes gleam, and his lips part a hairsbreadth, while Aziraphale's heart thunders. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, as if counting the letters with each pass of his tongue along his teeth. And smiles. " _Aziraphale_."

**Author's Note:**

> You can find gayforgoodomens on [Tumblr](https://gayforgoodomens.tumblr.com/)  
> And Naro on [Tumblr](https://naromoreau.tumblr.com/) <3  
> Or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/xenoscientist/)<3
> 
> In case you have any questions!!


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